


The Menagerie

by FickleBiscuits



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:52:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15395208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FickleBiscuits/pseuds/FickleBiscuits
Summary: This is going to be a collection of ficlets for random pairings, mostly just senseless, self-indulgent fluff I've collected over the years.





	1. The Swing Next To Yours - Shieth

_This is a love story; if you know where to look. It is a love story written in eyes, big and bright with devotion. It is a love story etched into the fingers of hands reaching out; to grasp and to have and to hold and to comfort. It is a love story tattooed onto sad, patient smiles. It is a love story carved into the soft brokenness of a name._

**_“Shiro...”_ **

_This is a love story. But it, like so many which have come before, begins as something else entirely._

 

* * *

 

 

  “It’s Keith, right?”

  The boy with dark hair and flinty eyes doesn’t look up from the patchy grass in front of his swing. He grasps the chains in two tight fists and sits still beside the five empty swings lined up beside him. Shiro shifts from one foot to the other and clears his throat, indecisive. Behind him, the sound of happily screaming children plays in raucous irony to this reticent boy sitting by himself on the swings.

  “This is a great place.” Shiro says honestly, turning to take in the playground, its jungle gym bars; the wooden play castle with chipping blue paint and the patchy soccer field where most of the class has started a game of ultimate frisbee.

  “I used to love the swings when I was your age. My friends and I had contests to see who could go the highest, once we almost-”

  “What do you want?” Keith’s voice is tired, but full of indignant anger; a heat that simmers with potential energy, waiting for the tiniest spark to ignite.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Right.” Keith replies, sarcasm dripping heavily from his words.

  “Mrs. Lewis told you to come, didn’t she? You’re some big shot pilot from the Garrison, she’s probably hoping you’ll fix me.”

  “Keith…” Shiro begins carefully. And sighs.

  “May I sit?”

  Keith says nothing, which Shiro thinks probably doesn’t mean he’s interested in continuing their discussion so much as he’s just tired of arguing with adults. At least Keith isn’t telling him to get the fuck out, which admittedly isn’t much, but given what little he’s picked up from Keith, Shiro will take it as a good sign.

  “Thanks.”

  Shiro eases himself down into the swing next to Keith’s and leans over to prop his elbows onto his knees, looking over at the tiny figure.

  “I’m not here because of your teacher, Keith. I’m here because I wanted to talk to you.”

  That seems to surprise Keith. His spine goes rigid and his eyes a little wide where they’re locked onto the dirt. His knuckles go white where they grip the chains and Shiro could swear he could hear the metal groaning in protest.

  “You didn’t say much during the presentation.” Shiro comments after a few silent seconds pass between them, prodding as gently as he can.

  “There wasn’t much to say.” Keith replies quietly and Shiro can hear the question in it, the waver of uncertainty. Shiro looks up at the tens of kids, fellow classmates, sprinting across an open field; calling to each other. No one is waving for Keith. No one is calling to him, or looking at him.

  Shiro glances back to the hunched figure on the swing next to his, sees for the first time, beyond the simmering resentment he’s wrapped himself in, the intense, resigned hurt. And the words speak themselves, uttered by a heart broken for a broken child; wrapped in resolve.

  “Have you heard of the Galaxy Garrison before?”


	2. A Glimpse - Macen Barro/Avitus Rix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Avitus Rix sets eyes on Macen Barro is on assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just finished up Andromeda and I know I'm super late, but I fell in love with Avitus and Macen. All I want from the next game is a mission where they find out Macen is alive, where you have to help your gay ex-specter Turian friend fight his way through half a galaxy to find his mate.  
> I feel like that would be appropriate.  
> I would love to one day write a full-length fic for this pairing, but I have way too many WIP's at the moment to commit to that. Sorry. In the meantime, enjoy my head canons.  
> : )

  The atmosphere on Talsetti’s fourth moon is thick and heavy and full of sulfur. Gouts of the puss-colored gas is tossed up in never ending streams from a catacomb of fissures which pock the steeply mountainous terrain, severely limiting visibility. 

  Not that there’s much to see. 

  No one’s ever bothered settling on this bare stellar body, since there’s no indigenous water or vegetation of any kind to be had. And according to the survey charts filed with the Citadel Mining Authority, there’s hardly anything worth credits under the ground either. 

  The few attempts made in recent decades to siphon the moon’s Sulfur have all met with disastrous ends. Not physically. But according to public records, the enterprises always seem to fold within a few months, leaving behind more equipment and poorly constructed prefabricated shelters to clutter the moon’s surface.

  Avitus Rix watches one of these sad little clusters from his perch atop a nearby mountain ridge. Though this installation is no longer abandoned. A larger, more fortified structure dominates the middle of the confluence, flanked by two tall guard towers and a handful of anti-vehicle barricades. 

  He fiddles with the settings on the scope of his rifle and curses the obscuring mist. He’s had to climb down far closer than he’d like to run proper recon on the base’s fortifications and personnel. He feels exposed and hyper aware of every minute move and shift he makes, even tucked away as neatly and safely as he is a few hundred meters away.

  He stretches a centimeter further out of the hole, crawling on his belly. He brings the scope up to the blast shield of his helmet and peers through. He marks two bored looking sentries and three land rovers parked alongside the bones of a nearby prefab. No canopy, no weapon emplacements, thank the stars for that, seats four each. eight pirates if he’s lucky, twelve if he isn’t. Counting the two sentries.

  Avitus rolls and sits up, digging the compression mod from his pack and affixing it to the end of his rifle muzzle with a deft economy of movement. 

  He slips off the safety and eases back down to watch and wait, his forefinger absently stroking the trigger guard. He’s going to have to time this perfectly, or he’s going to alert everyone in that base that he’s out here. Which would make his life a lot more difficult.

  The minutes trickle by, stealing silently through one hour and then another. Avitus waits as the guards are replaced. A Turian and a Human for a Batarian and an Asari. At least the ‘fresh’ guards seem as despondent as the first pair.

  He waits a third hour. A fourth. A fifth. Another rotation shift. Another Human, different armor, oranges and blues and a Quarian. Odd.

  Still he waits. Drinks a mouthful of water that tastes like rotten eggs, gnaws at one chapped mandible, hums to himself to keep focus. It’s an old folk song he’d first heard at basic, seventy-two verses about noble sacrifice and some green fringed pup named Issik. But the tune’s catchy.

  He’s on verse fifty-four when it happens. 

  The Human turns suddenly, leaning out to point and stare at something in the distance. Avitus’ finger slips onto the trigger, sights trained on the Quarian. Easy, easy. Breath.

  Avitus slowly exhales. And pulls the trigger.

  There’s a near-soundless wheeze as his rifle fires and he watches as the Quarian’s helmet and cranium explode outward instantaneously. He affords himself half a second to confirm the kill and then he’s swiveling, training sight and scope to the second tower. But the stand is empty.

  Avitus frowns and lowers the magnification, widens the sight so he can scan the surrounding terrain more quickly. Which is when he sees the other Turian.

  Narrower hips, streamlined chest plate, flared helmet to accommodate a full fringe. Male. 

  He’s got his back against the tower, crouched over the body of the other sentry. Avitus can see him well enough to watch his helmet swivel from the body of the dead Quarian to the surrounding mountains. He knows Avitus is there, even if he doesn’t know exactly where.

  The question is: who is he?

  The unidentified Turian lifts up an arm. Avitus spots the distinct orange blaze of an omnitool before the Turian’s form flickers and then completely vanishes.

  Tactical cloak.

  Shit.

  Avitus grits his teeth. He’s got to get down there and figure out what’s going on before this interloper ruins his op. He’s pitching forward, rolling over the lip of his perch and sliding down the mountain in a cascading shower of rocks and debris. 

  As close as he is, it still takes Avitus several minutes to scale down to the floor of the ravine. He hits the ground running and Avitus lets his momentum carry him barreling towards the main door. But by the time he gets there, the damage has already been done.

  He finds the base wide open, the interior explosively decompressed. The two surviving pirates he does find on the floor trying to hold in what’s left of their liquefied brains don’t last. He finds hard goods, records of bribes and contacts and a firewall which has been torn to shreds. 

  But no sign of the mysterious Turian.

  When Avitus returns to make his report he doesn’t mention the interloper to the council, accepts their indifferent congratulations with bored formality and leaves to make a few discrete inquiries of his own.

   He doesn't know then, but this is the first time Avitus Rix sets eyes on Macen Barro.

  But it certainly isn't the last.


End file.
